


Of Isabela

by betweenfactandbreakfast



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, F/F, i swear these 2 will kill me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2884814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenfactandbreakfast/pseuds/betweenfactandbreakfast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She can be found where stray things wash up. She’s found among filth, among the downtrodden, among ale and those who drink it for so many reasons or maybe none at all. She can be found there and she’s more beautiful than her surroundings, but still she fits. An interlocking piece of Kirkwall’s puzzle, she rests her elbows on the grimy bar of the Hanged Man and dreams of the sea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Isabela

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this to try and articulate my take on the isabela/fhawke romance, which i honestly think is one of the sweetest and most honest relationships in the franchise <3

She can be found where stray things wash up. She’s found among filth, among the downtrodden, among ale and those who drink it for so many reasons or maybe none at all. She can be found there and she’s more beautiful than her surroundings, but still she fits. An interlocking piece of Kirkwall’s puzzle, she rests her elbows on the grimy bar of the Hanged Man and dreams of the sea.

 

 She shakes hands like a sailor and Hawke trusts her like a pirate, but is intrigued. It’s not every day, after all, a woman such as she swings through.

Hawke watches her, when first they fight side by side, Hawke watches and for a moment can’t look away. She goes, returns, dances through air like it’s water. She wields her toothed blades like extensions of her arm; they bite deep, disrupt, shatter someone into ribbons of blood in an instant, with a laugh- a laugh, and a breath.

(Hawke compliments her ability, voice a bit hoarse as if it hadn’t been used it in a decade.)

She gives her thanks gracefully, but her eyes gleam, she knows, she knows wicked things and beautiful things and things that are so terribly sad. She is mischief, yes, but she is more, she is mystery, she is memories, she is magnificent.

She’s found in so many places Hawke couldn’t have expected, in the corner of her eye or the pages of her journal or the scent of the sea when Hawke travels through the coast.

She shares Hawke’s bed a few times, if so many could be called few (it’s always too few, or perhaps it’s just never enough). It’s strange because she loves to be loved, she loves when Hawke trails kisses up her arms, she loves when Hawke is between her thighs, she loves to grab and pull hair she loves to be waited on; she loves sherry, spiced rum, sweet cakes; she loves to dangle her bare toes over the docks into the water she loves the sun on her skin, she loves, she loves she loves, Hawke thinks it’s love sometimes but maybe it’s nothing, she loves like fire burns but- does she love Hawke?

She goes, returns, dancing with the devil, the unknown, all of her fears and doubts for the first time. Hawke fights for her life and then they exchange painful words, too painful because then she’s gone again, slipping away like the tides from a briny shore. It was always about Hawke, just like for Hawke it was always about her. Two women, from such different places, with such different stories. One of them knows she is in love, the other twists her bandana into knots and thinks of her champion. She thinks of what she left behind, of course- of course.

She went, and now returns, leaning upon the bar like nothing has changed, like the hot tears that sprang to her eyes sometimes never existed in the first place. (Hawke, who knows herself to be in love, decides to wait.)

She calls herself a lying, thieving snake. Hawke, who is in love, does not understand, she cannot fathom how such a beautiful soul could think so lowly of itself. Hawke, who is in love, still cares for her. Of course- of course.

The realisation creeps upon her slowly- her heart starts to pound uncomfortably whenever Hawke walks by, time slows to molasses when Hawke smiles, the merest touch can leave her dazed. She wants to crawl out of her skin, wants to take out her heart and shake the contents loose again. Because this, it will hurt, it will hurt because she may love (she loves, of course she does) but she’s never been more certain that she cannot be loved in return.

She finally has had enough, and goes with every intention of pleading to where Hawke found her first, the Hanged Man. Hawke looks pleased to see her, eyes softening, and she thinks she’s never seen anything lovelier.

Tell me, Hawke, does she have a chance with you? Does she- is she what you want? Can you love a broken girl who lies and steals and runs and cheats?

(Of course.)

She needn’t have worried. What a strange feeling! Hawke, who loves her already, Hawke, who near bled to death on the viscount’s carpet for her, Hawke. Hawke and Isabela. It feels right. Isabela smiles against her love’s lips and thinks, of course. Of course. 


End file.
